Overdue
by ShadeShifter
Summary: Tony is seven when the first words his soulmate will say to him appear on his forearm.
Tony is seven when the first words his soulmate will say to him appear on his forearm. The words flow in elegant loops that Tony thinks are beautiful. He traces over the words for long moments, equally relieved and excited that there is someone out there who exists only for him.

"Jacob," he says softly to himself, sounding out the name. "'Jacob, one of the Librarians.' Jacob and Tony, Tony and Jake."

His mother finds him like that over an hour later. She clumsily settles on the floor beside him and pulls him into her arms. She smells like mint and something sweet and sharp. Her eyes aren't entirely focussed when they meet his.

"Oh baby, I'm so happy for you," she tells him, brushing her fingers over the words. He shivers, discomfited at her proximity to something that he instinctively knows is his and his alone, but she holds him so seldom that he doesn't protest.

She pulls at one of her own flowing sleeves and brushes over her own words. He can't read them quickly enough so all he catches is the name Julian. It's not his father's name, but he knows not everyone chooses to follow those words, not everyone gets the chance. He might be young, but already he knows life isn't fair and things don't always turn out happily ever after. He wonders if things would have been different... better... if it was his father's words there.

"You mustn't tell your father," she says to him, gripping his chin and making him meet her eyes. "You mustn't."

Tony shivers at the desperate look in her eyes and words of agreement spill out of his mouth, tumbling over each other, since he's unable to nod within her bruising grip. She releases him and climbs to her feet then holds out a hand for him to take. Her fingers are like a vice around his, but experience has taught him it's easier to simply follow her lead.

"It won't fit," his mother says, murmuring to herself as she leads him down the stairs. He doesn't like her when she's like this, distant and distracted. She's not his mother when she's like this; she's just some woman wearing her face who only sometimes recognises who he is. "He'll break it, just because he can."

"I won't tell," Tony promises, knowing his father doesn't like to be disobeyed but knowing his mother is more unpredictable. His mother stops for a moment and looks down at him and for a moment she smiles sweetly at him. He automatically smiles back and she presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"Of course not," she says, stroking his hair as she continues to lead him through the house to the kitchen. "You're such a good boy."

He watches curiously as she turns on the stove. She's never made anything for him before, but sometimes the cook would boil some milk on the stove and make him hot chocolate. She smiles at him again and he tries to smile back but he's starting to get nervous.

"Come here," she says, pulling on his hand still held tightly in hers. He shuffles his feet before inching forward. Her hand smoothes over his hair and he leans into the touch, just a little, knowing it doesn't happen often. "Such a good boy."

Her fingers tighten around his and she pulls his arm up and presses it to the stove top. Tony screams and screams and doesn't stop.

"Shh, shh," she says, cradling him to her as he sinks to the floor. "It'll be alright now." She rocks him gently, running a hand over his hair. "Now he'll never know."

...

When he's eight, his mother dies. He stares at her grave, the words of the priest a drone he hears but doesn't listen to. His father's broad hand grips his shoulder hard, as though holding him in place, but Tony's doesn't fidget. He is still and solemn.

He was there when she died in a cold and clinical hospital room. 'Gone with the Wind' was playing on the TV in the background. He knows she loves the movie even if, every time she watches it, she's reduced to quietly sobbing her distress. This time, she's too weak to sob and the tears leak unhindered from the corners of her eyes to soak the pillow beneath her head. He never knows what to do when she cries, so he simply rests his hand on top of hers.

"I made all the wrong choices," she says, her voice a harsh rasp. It's the last thing she ever tells him.

It was an overdose. Not that anyone tells him that, they just tell him she wasn't well, but he's quiet and the adults tend to forget he's there. He was the one that found her, sprawled on her bed in a pool of vomit. He's the one who called for help and sat with her waiting for the ambulance. His father's on a business trip in Europe and doesn't come back until noon the next day. His mother manages to hold on for almost a week, but she'd done herself too much damage.

It felt like a different home when they finally got home from the hospital treating his burn; it felt strained. It had always been tense, the inhabitants cautious of each other, but now it felt oppressive. Later, he suspects there's a link there, between what she did to him and to herself, but he tries not to think about it too hard. Can't make himself stop.

He stares at the coffin in the ground and his fingers rub absently along his forearm. He can't feel the wrinkled, puckered flesh there anymore, won't ever again. The surgeries his father insisted on have left his forearm smooth and almost unblemished except for the faint scar at the edges of the graft. His father squeezes his shoulder and he winces, hands dropping to his side. He is still and solemn.

His mother is never coming home. He's relieved. And ashamed. He doesn't cry.

He never tells his father what the words said.

...

"Hey kid," the librarian greets him with a familiar smile. Tony pauses, hesitating a moment, before he looks up and smiles vaguely at the woman. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, ma'am," Tony says quickly as he hurries past her. He's fourteen and he's just come back from winter break. He pressed his mouth into a firm line and very carefully doesn't wince as he settles himself at his desk in the corner, the one he always takes on weekend furloughs, away from prying eyes.

He rolls up his sleeves and notices that the words on his arm are fading. He takes a look around before pulling out a permanent marker and tracing over the words again. He has to do it every few days. The kids at his last school made his life hell when they found out he had no words, not anymore – it's part of the reason why he's now at a military academy, his father thinks it'll toughen him up – so he found a way to circumvent it. He might be different now, damaged, but they don't have to know that.

He doesn't have friends, not really, though with his latest growth spurt and the muscle he's been packing on with all the training, he figures he'll try out for a few sports teams. It'll make his life much easier to be part of one of the groups that seem to form organically around him but never include him. Instead, he spends what little free time he has in the school library and his weekends at the local public library.

He knows he's unlikely to meet Jacob before he's an adult. For one, the words say Jacob's a librarian, so unless he's years older than Tony it's unlikely he currently holds that position. But Tony wants whatever connection to his soulmate he can get, however tenuous. And he doesn't want to disappoint him. He reads everything he can get his hands on; the books his favourite classic movies are based on, mythology because it seems to be the basis of most of the stories, Shakespeare and Milton, Joyce and Hemmingway. When he's in the mood, he reads Jung and Campbell, he reads about the why of stories. He finds them fascinating.

Not that he tells anyone of his forays into literature. His father would consider it a waste of his time and the kids at school always go for the know-it-alls first. He might not be popular, but he does what he can to protect himself.

He looks at his arm again, tracing the words with his eyes. He doesn't remember the loops and whirls of the elegant writing anymore, not exactly, not when he only saw them for an hour once years ago, but he remembers the words. They're what's important. He pulls open his most recent book and opens it to his bookmark. In less than four years he'll be eighteen and none of the rest of it will matter.

"Jacob," he says softly to himself like a mantra. "Jacob, the Librarian."

...

"Hey man," Steve says, barging into Tony's room. Tony's hand slips and the stylus jerks across his arm. He's upgraded from permanent marker to henna; it lasts longer and requires fewer touch ups. Usually, he remembers to lock the door.

As soon as he had the chance, he got as far away from New York as he could. He loves Ohio; loves his frat brothers who really have become like family to him; loves playing football and basketball; and loves travelling the country for games. At every stop, he tries to visit whatever local libraries he can.

With slow and measured movements, Tony grabs a tissue and wipes away the excess before it stains his skin. Steve closes the door softly behind him and keeps his silence. Somehow that's worse than shock or questions. When he's done, Tony still doesn't look up.

Those words, those stupid constrictive words, are one of the only things the frat's been talking about recently. Tom, one of his brothers, recently met his match. Lisa has the words "I might not go down in history, but I'll go down on you" on her arm. Tom has "not even if Rome was burning down around me". Drunken frat parties aren't exactly the place you expect to find your match. Tony has no idea how they're going to explain that to their future kids. Or how Lisa's parents explained it to her. No one asks him about his own words, they know enough to know it's a touchy subject.

"Tony," Steve says quietly, settling himself on the edge of Tony's bed. "It's okay."

Tony looks up then. He's not sure what is in his expression, but Steve frowns in sympathy.

"About two percent of the population doesn't have anything," Steve tells him, like it's not a statistic Tony knows already. He shakes his head.

"I used to," Tony says. Though part of him is beginning to wonder if that's really true. He'd only seen them for such a short time, so long ago, and he doesn't even have a scar anymore. Even the sharp memory of pain and betrayal has become a faded and washed out thing. It didn't seem worth holding onto after his mother died. Steve's expression of sympathy deepens.

"I'm sorry."

Tony shakes his head again. He wants to say his soulmate isn't dead, but he doesn't know if that's true, likely won't ever know.

"My arm was burned," he says, keeping his voice and expression neutral.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, his expression remaining the same. Slowly, Steve pulls at his cuff and exposes his forearm. There's nothing there. When Tony meets his eyes, Steve's expression is wry.

"I'm sorry," Tony says with his own wry expression. They share a moment of deep understanding that Tony's never felt with anyone else. He doesn't know if Steve is one of those two percent or if his chance has already slipped through his hands, but for the moment they're united in their difference from everyone else.

"Did you have a name?" Steve asks curiously. Not many people do. A large portion of the population has variations of "excuse me" and "a pleasure to meet you".

"Jacob," Tony says, hesitating only briefly.

"Sounds like a nerd," Steve tells him with a grin. Tony laughs, wondering at how freeing it is to talk about it for the first time.

"Librarian."

"I knew you were a closet nerd."

...

He's twenty-three when he meets Wendy. She's beautiful and alluring and she makes him feel like he's not damaged. The words on her arm say "I'm looking for Wendy Miller" and she's not willing to pursue every telemarketer or door-to-door salesman to find her match. She's fun and vivacious and she provides an enticing distraction.

She curls into his side; her body hot against his on the warm spring night. She trails a blood red nail across his chest and looks up at him coyly. His back still stings a little where she raked her nails over his skin, but it makes him feel alive, part of the world in way he hasn't before. Her grin is wicked when she shifts to tracing the outline of faint teeth marks on his arm and he shivers in discomfit as though she's trying to rewrite something written into his soul. There's no temporary tattoo; he's given up trying to hide what isn't there.

"You know," she says, "I'm definitely going to have to tell those brothers of yours that that nickname they gave you is well deserved."

Tony can't help but roll his eyes. When they'd seen his hopeless reaction to girls (and a guy or two) flirting with him they'd started calling him Sex Machine as a joke. Unfortunately it had stuck, even now that they've all graduated and moved on with their lives.

She starts running her fingers over his blank skin again and wonders at her fascination with it. He hasn't told her what happened, that he has a soulmate out there somewhere just like her. For one, he isn't even sure that Jacob is still out there. He has no way of knowing for sure. Tony might also have done something that means they won't ever meet now. Or Jacob might have.

And there are days, more and more frequently, where he feels like it's all very intangible and ephemeral. Without the proof of those words indelibly etched into his skin, it feels very much like putting his life on hold for something that might never arrive.

"So what have you got planned for tomorrow?" she asks him.

It's their six month anniversary. He's good at the grand gestures, the dates he should remember – birthdays and anniversaries; it's the small things he has trouble with, compromising and prioritising his time with her. He's still trying to navigate how this whole relationship thing works.

"You'll just have to wait and see," he tells her with a smirk. She smiles back, excited and anticipatory in equal measure.

"Oh really," she says, eyebrow arched. "Not even a hint?"

"Not even." He can't help but grin at her. She shifts to straddle him.

"We'll just have to see about that."

...

Tony lies in bed and tries not to let his entire world narrow down to the careful inhalation and exhalation of breath. It's difficult, more difficult than it has any right to be, but it was only two days ago that he was fighting for breath as his lungs filled up with fluid like having bricks piled on his chest and he had the words "you don't have permission to die" insinuating themselves in his subconscious.

Sometimes though he can't help it and his breath will just catch and he'll have to ride out the spasms that wrack him as best he can. Tony's in the middle of trying to hack up a lung when Abby arrives.

"Oh Tony," she says, black balloons - he's still not allowed flowers - absently released to bob against the ceiling as she comes to his side to try to help him through the worst of it. Finally, he leans back and focuses on just breathing again.

"I brought your mail," Abby says, pulling a few envelopes out of her purse. He can't help the wary way he regards them. "Don't worry," she tells him, patting his hand, "they've all been checked over thoroughly. There's not a speck of plague or virus or cold germ on them anywhere."

He manages to summon up a grateful smile for her.

"Thanks Abbs," he tells her and she grins back at him.

"There might have been a letter from the Metropolitan Public Library as well," she tells him, looking faintly furtive in a way that usually makes him frown if he's not playing along but just feels like too much effort at the moment.

"What did it say?" Tony asks, curious. He has no idea what they could possibly want with him. Abby shrugs and her expression shifts to something more than a little sheepish.

"It was blank," she admits. "I burned it. It was suspicious and..."

Tony's chuckle turns into another series of painful spasms that Abby tries to help him through. He can hear the quiver in her voice though and wishes he wasn't in a position to frighten her. When it's finally over, he lies back in bed and takes her hand in his. It feels like a monumental effort to give it a squeeze and to smile at her encouragingly.

"I'm fine," he tells her, fighting not to let his eyes droop shut.

"Oh Tony," she says with a sniff before she cautiously climbs in bed with him to curl up beside him, but she's still inordinately careful of him. She's warm and solid beside him and Tony can practically feel her lending him her strength.

"I'm sure if it's important they'll send me another letter," he says, deliberately misunderstanding her distress. Her laugh is more than a little shaky as she laces their fingers together, mindful of the IV and the monitoring equipment.

"I'm sure they will."

...

He looks at Jeanne across the table and she smiles shyly at him. He smiles back, an easy gesture that requires little thought and she blushes faintly and glances down at the menu.

"The lamb looks good," she says and he nods.

She's kind and sweet and so far removed from the violence of his life that seeing her feels like sanctuary. It's so easy, he thinks, to fall in love with her. So easy to just stand at the precipice and let himself tumble over the edge. It would barely take any effort on his part at all.

From their records he knows that her words faded when she was nineteen. After a six month sabbatical, she returned to university, but switched from Economics to Pre-med. She wants to make a difference in the world, wants to make life just a little better for the people around her, and he loves that about her.

The only thing holding him back is the lies. There are so many secrets between them, so many things he's just let her assume. When she found out about his lack of any mark, she assumed his soulmate had died just like hers had. He hadn't corrected her, hadn't known for sure it wasn't true. After the plague, after his recovery and he'd remembered his conversation with Abby, he'd approached the Metropolitan Library wondering if he was too late, but they'd had no knowledge of sending him a letter and no record of any Jacob working for them. At that point, Tony figured it was either a prank or that it just wasn't meant to be.

After Wendy, after everything, this feels like a chance at happiness, doomed as it is to failure. He's not blind to the fact this can only end in tragedy, but there's a part of him that's content to ignore that just for a taste of something like peace. And that part is growing larger every day.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, resting her hand on his. He turns his hand over and curls their fingers together.

"How amazing you are, Doctor Benoit."

Her concern brightens to a smile that makes her face light up and her eyes shine.

"That goes both ways, Professor DiNardo," she says playfully. He struggles to keep the smile on his face at the reminder of the role he's playing.

"There are things I want to tell you," he says slowly, hesitantly, trying to frame the words in his head. She gives his hand a squeeze.

"It's alright," she tells him. "You can tell me when you're ready."

For a brief moment, he wishes the words that should have been on his arm were hers. Something very much like guilt squirms in the pit of his stomach.

...

Tony loves stories, loves how everything fits together neatly, loves how there are reasons for things, patterns they fall into. He loves the inexorable way events unfurl, as though there's no other possible path they can take. He loves how stories make sense.

There's a part of his own story he'll never know.

Tony tries to help a teammate, tries to find out the truth, and ends up bloody and beaten for the effort. This part he knows, knows deep in his bones, in the way he aches all over and the way Ziva can't look at him without sneering.

The part he won't ever be able to forget involves getting summarily shipped to Israel to stand trial or something very much like it. Being questioned by the Director of Mossad, no matter how he manages to turn the tables, is something that's going to be sneaking into his nightmares for years to come. So is the look on Ziva's face when she knocks him to the ground.

The part he doesn't know takes place half a world away.

Lancelot looks down at Lamia who's poring over newspaper clippings and other assorted bits of paper.

"How far are you?" he demands.

"Abraham Thomas and Farrah Shari have been dealt with. And Jonas Sheir," she adds with a nod in his direction. Lancelot had taken some pleasure in stopping the man just as he was about to reach his destination and put a spanner in the works. "We've almost completed the list, there are only four left."

"Tell me."

"Three of them will be easy to track down," she tells him quickly and efficiently. She has always served him well. "The fourth is a little more problematic."

He raises an eyebrow. Lamia doesn't usually prevaricate.

"He's with NCIS and he's currently on his way to Tel Aviv," she says.

"We've conducted operations in Israel before."

"Not with Mossad."

"Mossad," he drawls, curious. He tries not to draw too much attention from anyone who can cause him some serious problems. Mossad can't stop him, but they can make his life more difficult and he can't afford that this close to the end. "And he's not a Guardian?"

"Apparently not, though his resume is rather lacking for a Librarian," she tells him, finding the paper with the relevant information. "He has only one Masters Degree and only speaks four languages."

"Hmm," Lancelot says thoughtfully. "It's unlikely he'll interfere, but put someone on him anyway just in case they have the opportunity to do something about him."

"Of course."

...

Tony finds himself at loose ends after he resigns. Ziva's headed back to Israel and he's tempted to follow her, to finally get some closure, but something holds him back. Things are still up in the air with Gibbs and the team and he's been with them, for the most part, for almost 12 years. Some small part of him wonders if this is how prisoners feel when they're released, suddenly unsure how to deal with the world at large.

He wanders around his apartment wondering what people do with free time, wondering what he used to do with his free time. He hasn't had any in so long. His gaze travels over his piano, his movies and books, but nothing grabs his attention. Then he spots a letter that's been pushed under his door. He frowns. All his mail goes to the mailbox downstairs.

Cautiously he approaches it, peering to see who it's from. He has a healthy wariness of unexpected mail that he doesn't feel is unwarranted at all. The envelope clearly states that it's from the Metropolitan Public Library. Something tickles at his memory and he picks it up, carefully opening it and pulling out the single sheet inside. It's blank and Tony finally remembers Abby mentioning something similar.

As he watches, glowing words appear on the paper, spelling out an offer for a position as librarian. His heart begins to thud and, though he tries very hard to repress it, hope swells in his chest. It's enough to get him to the address on the letter, which seems to be a building at the base of a bridge in Portland. He knocks and waits nervously. The man who opens the door stares up at him through narrowed eyes.

"I received a letter," Tony says, not missing the way the man seems to still and stare at him. "It said something about a position? In glowing letters?"

"I'm Jacob, one of the Librarians," the man says, eyeing him warily like Tony might just attack him at any moment. Tony can't help but grin.

"Jacob," he murmurs as he matches the name he's been keeping close to his heart like a mantra to the man in front of him. He isn't anything like Tony imagined, he's short and broad-shouldered, gruff and gorgeous.

"It's you, isn't it," Jacob says, rolling up his sleeve and revealing the words 'I received a letter' in Tony's scrawl. Tony's heart stutters in his chest and he swallows hard. After so long he isn't sure what to do with the fact that his journey's reached its end. Tony doesn't bother rolling up his sleeve, it wouldn't make any difference, instead he steps forward into Jacob's space, rests his hand against the man's cheek and leans down to kiss him. Jacob meets him halfway.

...

"I spent most of my teenage years writing to every penpal I could find," Jake tells him later after they stumbled their way into Jacob's sparse apartment, too caught up in each other to properly see where they're going. After they fell onto the bed tangled in clothing they're in too much of a hurry to properly get out of. After they've exhausted each other learning everything they can about what makes the other sigh and gasp and scream.

"I spent mine in libraries," Tony admits and they both laugh lightly.

"Not a bad place to waste some time," Jake says, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Tony shudders at the moment that is just a little too much.

"I waited so long. I thought..."

"I know," Jake says, but Tony isn't entirely sure he does because Jake always knew Tony was out there, always had the assurance of black writing on skin. He keeps his silence though, because all that is in the past, because Jake is his now, finally.

"What happened?" Jake asks after a few moments, fingers brushing over Tony's unmarked forearm.

"My arm was burned," Tony says carefully, admitting and explaining little. If anyone deserves answers though, it's this man in this moment. Jake shifts to look up at him and Tony sighs. "My mother..." He trails off into a shrug.

"Why?" Jake asks, voice soft like he's scared to pierce the fragility of the moment or like Tony's a skittish colt that needs handling. It's enough to make him smile faintly.

"I think," Tony says slowly. "I think she let my father seduce her, promise her something better, and that she missed her chance."

"So she blamed him?"

"And didn't want the same to happen to me," Tony agrees softly. The pain he always feels when he thinks of what was taken from him is a distant thing now. He feels content and warm all the way through. Jake gently wraps calloused fingers around his wrist and brings Tony's arm closer to him. He presses a kiss to the unblemished skin there. Tony's breath catches and he releases it shakily.

"We found each other," Jake says, shifting to curl against him, arm slung across his waist, head resting on his shoulder.

"We did." Tony moves his arm to curl around Jake's shoulders. This moment here makes everything worth it.


End file.
